The Outsider (40 page)

“You can depend on me,” Cross assured him; the corners of his mouth twitched, for he was wondering just what they would depend upon him for: to lie for the Party or to try to win Eva? And, back of it all, he was protecting his own wild despair of having surrendered to his pride to the point of having killed…

Hilton returned to the room absentmindedly puffing at a cigarette. His bony, ascetic face was tensely concentrated. Cross marveled at the self-possession of this man who, twenty-four hours ago, had mercilessly reduced Bob's enthusiasm for organizing to a quivering heap of whimpering flesh, and Cross was certain that no regretful memories or stings of remorse lingered on in Hilton's mind as he now coldly grappled with this new crisis. Men like Hilton did not spend their days scheming how to get hold of dollars; they worked at organizing and exploiting the raw stuff of human emotions. In their being close to the common impulses of men, in their cynical acceptance of the cupidities of the human heart, in their frank recognition of outlandish passions they were akin to priests. Now that he had killed Gil and had elected to remain near Eva, this man was his adversary, an adversary who played a game whose stakes held nothing less than life and death…Cross fought feebly against an intellectual pride that was rising in him and making him want to cope with Hilton, to show him that he and his kind did not possess a monopoly of knowledge about the emotional nature of man. And again Cross was dismayed at himself for contracting the ailment he hated. To fight Hilton meant fighting Hilton on Hilton's own ground, just as he had had to kill Gil and Herndon on their own ground, and that in itself was a defeat, a travesty of the impulse that had first
moved him…Was all action doomed to this kind of degradation? How did one get around that? Or maybe you couldn't get around it? Perhaps he was staring right now at the focal point of modern history: if you fought men who tried to conquer you in terms of total power you too had to use total power and in the end you became what you tried to defeat…

Hilton was restless, chronically ill at ease, shifting from foot to foot, as if he feared that if he stood still he would commit some violent act. There was about his face and eyes that same impression of intolerable strain that had been so noticeable to Cross last night at Bob's. Here was a human instrument that had placed the total capacities of its life completely at the disposal of the Party…Cross could feel that Hilton, at this very moment, was pondering some question concerning him, for Hilton's wary eyes were fixed upon his face. Finally Hilton said to Cross:

“Come into the kitchen a moment.”

“Sure.”

Menti was talking to Eva now in low, consoling tones and Cross left her to trail behind Hilton. When they were inside the kitchen, Hilton shut the door and turned to Cross. He smiled and asked:

“How's she taking it?”

“As you see,” Cross answered, on guard.

“You think we ought to get somebody to be with her?”

“Gosh, I don't know.” He thought the question odd, for Hilton had shown no concern about Eva's state until now. “She can take care of herself. She shows little of what's going on in her.”

“
That's
what I'm scared of,” Hilton said in a tone of amused wonder. “She might even be glad that Gil is dead when she's over the shock. Gil was a first-class
sonofabitch, if ever there was one. He was an absolutely cold fish whom I tried always to avoid, if I could…” He caught hold of Cross's arm and squeezed it. “You're not so bourgeois that speaking the truth about the dead bothers you…”

“Hell, no,” Cross said; he was genuinely surprised. What was the man getting at?

“Gil was snobbish to the point of inciting murder, really,” Hilton went on, smiling wryly. “Frankly, I've no sympathy for him. I'm a Communist and a dead man, so far as I'm concerned, is just so much cold meat.” He chuckled uneasily. “He never liked me. I'm just an ex-school teacher, but Gil's father was a 1905'er…His real name was Bernstein. He grew up in the Bronx with the air of revolution in his home and it always made him feel that he was of the red elite. He hit at me several times politically, but I dodged him. He was widely hated in the Party.”

“I didn't know that,” Cross said. Why's he telling me this?

“And Eva's a cold one too,” he went on in a tone of voice that told Cross that he was now getting to his point. “There was no love lost between Gil and Eva…Don't kid yourself. In the Party, we know things.”

Hilton looked at Cross curiously. He's worried about Eva and he's wondering how much I know…He decided not to tell Hilton that he knew Eva's marriage had been arranged by the Party, and that Eva had been in revolt, had been seething with hatred and despair.

“She knows a lot about the Party, but Gil was her only real link to us,” Hilton pursued his theme. His lips moved without emitting words.

“Have you heard her say anything against the Party?” he asked finally.

Cross decided at once that he would defend Eva: their interests were identical.

“Never.” He reflected that he was a newcomer and his word would not mean much. “She's never spoken an anti-Party word—In fact, I've asked her about political issues, but she'd never talk. Of course, you know that I'm not yet a member of the Party…”

“She likes colored people,” Hilton said. He hastened to add: “I'm not saying that in a nasty way. She does. Tell me, do you think she trusts you?”

Cross understood at last. Hilton was asking him to watch over Eva! And he was longing to do just that, but not for Hilton's or the Party's sake. And, no doubt, in the living room Menti was hinting to Eva to keep an eye on Cross…

“I don't know,” Cross said cautiously.

“From what I see of her reactions, I think she does,” Hilton said with a sly smile.

He was angry, but he hid his feelings. He sensed that at some time in the past Hilton must have made advances to Eva and had been repulsed; and now, in the interests of the Party, he was giving her up. What a man…! Cross thought.

“Why aren't you a member of the Party?”

“Well, I just met Gil and Eva last night.”

“That's long enough. You are a Negro and you've an instinct for this sort of thing. I don't mean a racial instinct; it's a socially conditioned instinct for dissimulation which white Americans have bred in you, and you've had to practice it in order to survive. Watching and coping with the racially charged behavior of white Americans are a part of your learning how to live in this country. Look, every day in this land some white man is cussing out some defenseless Negro. But that white bastard is too stupid in intelligence and deficient in imagi
nation to realize that his actions are being duplicated a million times in a million other spots by other whites who feel hatred for Negroes just like he does; therefore, he is too blind to see that this daily wave of a million tiny assaults acts to build up a vast reservoir of resentment in Negroes. At night at home Negroes discuss this bitterly. But the next morning, smiling, they show up on their jobs, swearing that they love white people…Why? You know the answer. They have to live, eat, have a roof over their heads…So they collaborate with people who they feel are their sworn enemies…White America has built up something in you that can help the Party now. Defend yourself against these cops who are coming, and, if you do, you are defending the Party and your own interests at the same time. If you are honest in your heart, you cannot deny the Party. What about it, Lionel?”

How astute the man was! The average white American could never drag such simple truths past his lips, and here was a man confessing it with fluent passion. Did the average white American suspect that men like Hilton existed, men who could easily rise above their petty feelings of racial hatred and, instead of allowing the racial phobias of the mob to dominate their lives, could cynically make use of the racially defensive attitudes instilled in Negroes by the ill-treatment meted out by whites, could use such racial consciousnesses as weapons in their own bitterly determined struggle for power by exploiting this racial consciousness in their own behalf? This Hilton knew his country as only a man who had lived in it but not of it could know it. He was a man who, like Houston, like Gil, was an outsider and was free in what he apprehended. But I'm an outsider too, Cross thought musingly. I'll let him use me for what
I
want to be used for…

“I have no objections,” Cross said softly.

What greater protection could he dream of than this? The Party he loathed was going to help defend him…

“Now, when the police questioning is over, I want to talk to you,” Hilton said, giving Cross a card with his address upon it. “I don't live far from here—”

“Okay,” Cross agreed, taking the card from him.

They shook hands.

“Just look after Eva,” Hilton said. “If anything develops, get in touch with me. In fact, I think you'd better stay close to her.”

Cross did not trust himself to answer. He simply nodded. Hilton looked nervously at his wrist watch.

“The police are slow in coming,” he commented.

They returned to the living room. Eva was stretched out on the sofa. Cross went to her, bent down and asked:

“Can I get you something, Eva?”

She shook her head, forcing a wan smile to her lips. Menti looked at Hilton and winked. Hilton knelt at the knees of Eva and caught hold of her hand.

“Darling, Gil's gone, but the Party's still here. Your Party lives,” he said softly, in solemn tones. “I've no doubt but that you're going to be able to do what you're called upon to do. Here's the situation. Herndon called Gil down to make him put Lionel out of the apartment. You heard noises and you and Lionel went down to see what was the matter. Herndon was beating Gil—He drove both of you upstairs, beating Lionel with the poker—You heard more noises—Eva, you tried to phone the police, but couldn't get through. So you phoned me and I phoned the cops; understand? Then you and Lionel heard more noises and screams. You sent Lionel down to help Gil…But the door was locked. Lionel came back up to phone the cops and,
Eva, you started down again—But Herndon ran you back up with his gun—You saw 'im on the stairs with his gun—You both then locked yourselves in, see? You phoned me again—I came with Menti—We broke down the door—” Hilton gripped Eva's arm tightly. “Now, listen, we
didn't
tell you what we found down there, Eva…You hear? You
understand
that?”

“What do you mean?” Eva asked, baffled.

“I mean this,” Hilton explained. “You and Lionel
did not
go down with us—You and Lionel remained
up here
; understand? You don't know that Gil's
dead
, see? When you hear that he's dead, you must
scream
! Your husband's been
murdered
. Herndon's guilty of
murder
; see? That's all. Herndon's the
murderer
. The rest of the burden's on us…”

Eva nodded her head, tears streaming again on her cheeks.

“You are a
Communist
, Eva,” Hilton emphasized. “We Communists do what we
have
to do. It's our life.”

Then the room was deathly still, for, in the distance, came the faintly rising wail of a siren.

“Are you all right, Eva?” Menti asked.

“I'm all right,” Eva said, steeling herself.

The police are coming, Cross told himself. If Eva could face them, then, God knows, he ought to be able to. Buttressed by these two men whose profession was based on a defiance of the men of the law, he would have more than an equal chance. For a moment a nostalgic regret seized hold of him. Why was he not
with
them? Especially at times like this he welcomed their support. As an ally against racist white Americans, they had no peers. But he knew that that was not all. He recalled Bob's squirming on the floor, begging for a mercy that the Party would not grant. No; no, he would not swallow that happening to him…The sirens were
near now, nearer, then nearer still. Suddenly he could hear them no more and he knew that the police were downstairs in the snow-choked streets in front of the house.

Cross knew that another world, Herndon's world, was coming; the police agents of that world were as much against him as the dead man Herndon had been. And Hilton and Menti were his allies and wanted to defend him, whatever their motives. He was black and, in the baleful eyes of the men who were coming, he had no right to be here in a white apartment building in a white neighborhood. He leaned against the wall, waiting, thinking. Why was it like this? As a Negro, he was not even free enough to choose his own allies.

What a cheap price Hilton was paying for his loyalty! And for men like Hilton, detached from impulses of racial hatred, what a trifling effort to expend to capture the allegiance of millions of people! Was not a world that left itself open to such easy attacks a stupid world, a doomed world, a rotten world not worth fighting for or saving? Since Herndon's world considered him only half-human, why did he not, out of spite and in defense of his own human dignity, turn on that world and, with the help of such base and dubious allies as Hilton and Menti, destroy it? But what would happen to him after that world was destroyed…? Would he not be at the mercy of the Hiltons and Mentis…? Hunh? What a black choice…!

He was now hearing the slow, heavy tramp of feet on the stairs. There came the sound of a brutal wrenching at the knob of the door, then the bell pealed impatiently. Cross moved to the center of the room, but Hilton waved him back.

“Stay put. I'll get this. I'll do the talking until they ask you something,” Hilton said, going out.

Menti sat holding his arms about Eva and looking at Cross. Cross winked at Menti and Menti smiled. He had to give these men some assurance. He heard Hilton open the door.